Widmung
by Aberforth is Made of Awesome
Summary: Most chapters will not contain R rated material. This is what could be termed an AU chapterfic. RM.
1. Widmung

_Widmung_  
  
Du meine Seele  
Du mein Herz  
Du meine Wonn'  
O, du mein Schmerz  
Du meine Welt in der ich lebe  
Mein Himmel du, darein ich schwebe  
O, du mein Grab in das hinab ich ewig meinen Kummer gab!  
Du bist die Ruh'  
Du bist der Frieden;  
Du bist vom Himmel mir beschieden.  
Daß du mich liebst macht mich mir wert,  
Dein Blick hat mich vor mir verklärt  
Du habst mich liebend über mich  
Mein guter Geist, mein bess'res ich.  
Du meine Seele  
Du mein Herz  
Du meine Wonn'  
O, du mein Schmerz  
Du meine Welt in der ich lebe  
Mein Himmel du, darein ich schwebe  
Mein guter Geist, mein bess'res ich.  
  
F. Rüchert  
  
She had been very good at not remembering. She typically made a point of being very good at everything, earning everyone's admiration and respect but her own; yet with that small part of her subconscious that still was allowed to know that there was something not to remember, she congratulated herself.  
  
She had been very methodical, carefully weeding out anything that might, in the slightest sense, remind her. All photos, all letters, even going so far as to remove from her everyday sight and familiarisation old clothing and sheets. Draperies. What few pieces of jewellery she owned. Most of all, her old sheet music and LPs.  
  
Except one.  
  
She could never put away Dvorak. Doing so would not only check old memories, but also her own essence. Whilst she told herself she was being silly and immature, she still could not seriously imagine life without his music. It had become as much a part of her as had her trademark bun, or teaching.  
  
Still, she only permitted this luxury to commence once every month or so, in order to minimise totally any risk of remembrance. Besides, it wasn't as if she'd not allowed herself to be engaged by other music. The names were all dear to her: Tchaikovsky, Schumann, Puccini, Strauss, Verdi, Offenbach, Wagner... they all filled her with delight.  
  
But Dvorak filled her with memories too. Once she got to the Romance for Violins, she lost control; her ever-so-tightly-clenched memories started to sift through her consciousness.  
  
_warm hazel eyes laughing at her, sparkling jovially, and that once-familiar smell, half of orange tea, half of him_  
  
Such images would float back to her  
  
_staring down a long, dark country road, her only companions the starlight, the soft cast of the waning moon, and the cheery yellow windows of a house not too far away, shimmering slightly in the snow_  
  
that she would invariably lose control of the spell and shatter the record. She would leave it that way, angrily thinking herself better off, and attempt to sleep,  
  
_warmth, and dark, her companion this time of flesh and blood, the only sound in her ears the thudding of their hearts, the only thought in her mind his overwhelming presence, and too many feelings to feel, only the softness of his mouth on hers reaching her overwrought brain_  
  
waking in the morning only to repair it and put it up. No, she hadn't the heart to throw it out, even if it was only a last-ditch effort to keep living in the past. And so the never-ending cycle of stoicism and nuances of half-forgotten misery and passion continued until the fateful day when she was nearly killed by something resembling a small dragon.  
  
Minerva McGonagall was not one to mince words. Thus when Hagrid nearly bowled her over on his way to the Owlery, she made rather vehement protestations. Hagrid was, true to form, properly aghast.  
  
'Eee, I'm sorry Professor McGonagall.'  
  
Minerva, after her heart rate had returned to normal, said with some clenching of her teeth, 'That's quite all right, Hagrid. Just try to watch where you're going.'  
  
'Are you alright, Professor?'  
  
'Yes, fine, thank you,' she said, holding her hand against her temple where she had hit the wall.  
  
'You're bleedin'!'  
  
She pulled her hand away, and saw that blood, albeit not a copious amount, covered her palm.  
  
She sighed, and concurred dazedly, 'Well, I suppose I'd better go see Poppy after I mail this letter off to the Ministry.' Come to think of it, she did feel a bit light-headed.  
  
' 'Ere, I'll take it there fer you; I'm goin' up there as it is.' At this his face darkened perceptibly as a new thought hit him. He smiled warmly and cautiously at Minerva.  
  
'Actually Professor Dumbledore 'as given me the day off, ter fix summat up fer Harry. A photo album.' His voice had been becoming increasingly soft. He finally said, 'You wouldn't happen to have any pictures of Lily n' James, would ya?'  
  
Her mood altered unfathomably. Her face looked as if it had been set in stone. Finally, she murmured, 'Yes.' She paused. 'Yes, I'll bring them around your cabin after I see Poppy,' she continued briskly, and quite composedly, though her eyes belied her.  
  
Hagrid was silent for a moment, and then he said, 'Thank ye, Minerva.'  
  
'It's nothing,' she said with a faraway look on her face.  
  
She looked in his eyes for a moment and then turned briskly and went back the way she had come.  
  
As fond as she was of Poppy, Minerva had to admit that she could be awfully overbearing when it came to her patients. She frowned slightly. After being detained for two hours over a simple little scratch, she felt anyone else would have been irritated as well. 'Now, now, Minerva,' she had said, 'you are my patient, and as such, your well being is under my care. So don't be so obstinate and lay down.'  
  
She laughed wryly. Poppy wasn't so unlike herself. Which gave her slight pause. However, she dismissed the thought as quickly as she had entertained it, for as strict as she was, she had good reason to be, and no one who acknowledged that could bear her ill will because of it. Which she supposed wasn't so unlike Poppy either. But she did tend to take things too far....  
  
Which, Minerva acknowledged, wasn't too hard when twenty people were trying to stuff themselves noisily into the Infirmary at the same time, with half of Honeydukes along with them. She had a very sparing sense of humour at any rate; she had looked at Minerva in disbelief when she had snorted at the Weasley twins' 'gift' to Harry.  
  
When she finally reached her rooms, however, she felt like going to sleep, despite her pretension. The only thing that stopped her was a glimpse of Hagrid's cabin out of her window. This made her frown deepen and her eyebrows furrow in consternation. She sat down slowly on her bed, not allowing her posture to go slack, and stayed there, not moving for some time. If someone had been looking at her face, it might have appeared to be carved out of stone, but her eyes -- which had the not so unusual ability to emote clearly when not masked by thick glasses and authoritarian severity -- flitted from hazel to a flashing green-grey to, perhaps most truly, a clear amber in the brilliant sunlight from her tower window.  
  
Finally, she inhaled deeply, sighed, and left, searching for something she had not willingly sought in over ten years.


	2. Flanders Fields

_In Flanders Fields _  
  
In Flanders fields the poppies blow   
Between the crosses, row on row,  
That mark our place, and in the sky  
The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
Scarce heard amid the guns below.  
We are the Dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
Loved and were loved, and now we lie  
In Flanders fields.  
Take up our quarrel with the foe:   
To you from failing hands we throw  
The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
If ye break faith with us who die  
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow  
In Flanders fields.  
  
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)  
Canadian Army  
  
Remus Lupin lay awake in the dark haven of his rented room.  
  
Pain, and vivid memory, seemed to make sleep impossible.  
  
Muscles, stiff and sore from his recent transformation, were apt reminders of his peripatetic lifestyle in all its splendour.  
  
His thoughts had been dark that day, as they often were after his Change, times when old and familiar feelings would swamp him. Odd that changing could actually make him feel more human. Perhaps it was a sign of how retched his life had become. He was glad to be alone. And yet....  
  
The very darkness of the room that was supposed to give it a restful quality provided the blank backdrop for his fitful thoughts.  
  
_A limpidly green field and a sky almost devoid of its usual blue. Many large red poppies, bursting with scarlet passion and energy despite the oppressive, humid heat, dotted the landscape. Littered among these fiery reminders of life were cool, unobtrusive white granite crosses, indifferent to the sweltering day. Every now and then, a hot, heavy wind would riffle his hair. His plain white oxford shirt clung to his body. Clouds were rolling in, as if God himself could not bear the awful testimony of this forsaken site. Distant thunder was the only occasional sound to break that of heavy, buzzing silence._  
  
He closed his eyes. The image would not leave him. Restlessly, he turned over, even that simple movement causing excruciating pain.  
  
_They had had no chance. Whatever dreams, hopes they had had for the future were clouded by mustard gas, smashed by Maxims, cut short by concertina wire, forced to move forever sideways like the incessant monotony of the trenches. They had died in awful anguish; they were buried in peace and glory. Now nothing remained of them save off-white crosses; the last remnants of a shattered generation, the unearthed bones of brave men and cowards; while everything else, including courage and pusillanimity, was interred. Everything meaningful was stripped away leaving only the misshapen suggestion of humanity.  
  
Why?  
  
It wasn't that he's not had his chance. He had, at some far distant time, beyond remembrance. Perhaps if he'd not been so foolhardy, if he'd not.... But that was unreachable, unalterable. Why had it been shut? Where had he gone wrong? All his life, he'd tried to be the upright man he knew that he had to be.  
  
It was hard, when you felt alone.  
  
His life had been full, even up to the beginning of the war. He had caring parents who sacrificed much for him and cared for nothing but his happiness. He had been blessed with a chance for a normal life, with a wonderful education, good friends, and even enemies. And he had been happy. But even in his youth, he was becoming more aware of an emptiness that had nothing to do with anyone but himself.  
  
Always, he had been treated kindly, by everyone except those who saw what he was for who he was. Always he had been grateful for what others gave him.  
  
He never had actually accomplished something for himself. He had never spoken for himself. Never taken a real stand for what was important to him.  
  
It was his fault.  
  
His damn fault.  
  
It had been plaguing him, ceaselessly; he had caused it. He hadn't stood up. He never offered his services. He had been afraid. Afraid that somehow, he wasn't good enough. Afraid that he would have given in. Always afraid of his ability to hurt. He had spared them all of having to worry because of him.  
  
And because of that....  
  
He wondered what Peter had dreamt of.  
  
He wondered, bitterly, what Sirius had dreamt of.  
  
Sometimes he wondered if he had known any of them at all. Or if, in his mental battles between honour and confrontation, he had only seen what they wanted him to see. Caring friends. A loving, if tactless, husband, a dutiful father. A boyish bachelor. A timid misfit.  
  
He wondered if he had known what honour meant.  
  
Or if he had been preoccupied, always, with the semblance of peace, and found honour and duty conformed to it. Preoccupied with...._  
  
He swallowed.  
  
_Then, when the conflict reached its summit, when the suspicion was highest, no one trusted in anything but the stereotypes and the comfortable familiarity of his own self. Beneath the thin layer of cordiality was intense, tangible mistrust. Reason seemed illogical, and peace was at its most fragile._  
  
He drifted into an uneasy, fevered sleep, subconsciously not allowing his thoughts to stray any closer to the present.  
  
_Someone -- a woman -- was looking at him, concernedly. She reached the cool back of her palm out to touch his forehead. A furrow appeared between her brows.  
  
There was a feeling of familiarity about her -- perhaps she was his cousin, or his mother. She leaned over him her eyes full of worry. Gently, she eased him on his side and proceeded to rub circles in his back, at first lightly dusting his skin with her fingertips, then with increasing pressure until his muscles were so loose that he felt he could hardly move.  
  
Then, somehow, she was holding him running her fingers along his jaw line. Who was she? -- neither cousin nor mother.... Kissing him lightly on the forehead, she whispered 'Sleep.'  
  
'I can't.'  
  
'Don't be ridiculous, of course you can.' She paused and her face blurred, and he heard only her voice:  
  
'Don't worry. You've done the right thing, the honourable thing, and -- I respect you so much for it. You don't have to look so hard. The right course is right in front of you. You need only follow it. Sleep.'  
  
She added tenderly, 'I will love you until the end of my days.'  
  
He remembered none of his dreams but slept on in peace._  
  
When he woke in the morning, he found the fickle spring weather had turned cold and dewy as his window had been thrown open in the night, most probably by a sharp wind. He rose and dressed slowly, pausing only a moment before packing his suitcase.  
  
As he paid his bill and left the small hotel, he was submerged in thought.  
  
Since one cold November morning seven years ago, he had been travelling, searching. For some reminder of life, for closure, for, however unlikely, a way back to the past.  
  
For a refuge from his own cowardice.  
  
And because of that, he had increased it.  
  
Running away.  
  
It was unreachable, unalterable. His subconscious had been running in circles, trying to find itself.  
  
Perhaps if he stood still, it could. Perhaps living was more than just reacting. He had forgotten.  
  
Trying to find a future in the past had not been wise. Perhaps it was finally time to face his past head-on and create an actual present. Possibly even a future.


	3. Un bel di vedremo

_Un bel di vedremo_  
  
Un bel dì vedremo  
levarsi un fil di fumo  
sull'estremo confin del mare  
e poi la nave appare.  
Poi la nave bianca  
entra nel porto  
romba il suo saluto!  
Vedi! Egli è venuto!  
Io non gli salgo incontro, io no...  
mi metto là, sul ciglio del bosco  
e aspetto, e aspetto tranquilla  
e non mi pesa  
la lunga attesa.   
E uscito dalla folla cittadina  
un uomo, un picciol punto   
s'avvia per la collina.  
Chi sarà, chi sarà,  
e come sarà giunto?  
Che dirà, che dirà?   
Chiamerà "Butterfly" alla lontana,  
io, senza dar risposta,  
me ne starò nascosta:  
un po' per celia... e un po'...  
per non morir, al primo incontro!  
Ed egli alquanto in pena chiamerà,  
chiamerà:  
"Piccina mogliettina,  
olezzo di verbena"...  
i nomi che mi dava al suo venire...  
Tutto questo avverrà, io lo prometto!   
Tienti la tua paura,  
io con sicura fede  
lo aspetto!   
  
It was the watch that made him decide. Plain, serviceable, and functional. As he performed the task daily: pulling the band round his wrist, flicking the clasp open and shut, it surprised him that on this of all mediocre days, it would have any special effect. Yet somehow, it did. Perhaps it was the sound of the brown leather stretching slightly as he wrapped it on, or the flash of light on the gold-coloured clasp that put the memory in his mind. But as uncertain as he was about why he suddenly had this flash of longing now, he knew the watch was the reason behind it.  
  
It was a good memory.  
  
Precious few from that period were.  
  
Yet even those were tarnished by the overwhelming guilt he felt.  
  
He took the watch off slowly, being careful this time not to let the leather creak, and looked at the engraving on the back.  
  
_RJL  
Happy Birthday_  
  
It had been an unusually cold September.  
  
Remus hated cold weather. Especially cold, rainy weather. Snow he could handle, but days of rain when the temperature refused to dip below 0° but hovered right above it....  
  
Those were intolerable.  
  
September 22 dawned, drearily, with the promise of just such a day.  
  
Remus looked blearily out of his window. He could only hope that the weather in Godric's Hollow would be better than that in London.  
  
Lily had insisted on throwing a party for him. For his birthday. Despite the heavily guarded suspicions that were running rampant among their number, Remus suspected this was more of a chance for everyone to relax than a show of thin hospitality.  
  
He hoped, at any rate.  
  
So he busied himself: getting ready and trying to seem happier.  
  
Despite everything, he was looking forward to it. He would have to sit away from Sirius. That saddened him. But at least Lily and James weren't against him. And Sirius had agreed to come.  
  
He prayed his fears for the day were unfounded.  
  
Remus was filled to bursting.  
  
Satiated in a way he had not been since he was very small, if not ever. Certainly not recently.  
  
It wasn't just the food, either, though it certainly was enough. The whole situation had him on sensual overload.  
  
It was perhaps the oddest experience he had ever had.  
  
The atmosphere had been vibrant. The whole Order had been present, eating, drinking, and talking, generally having a good time. If an outsider had been present, the oddity of the situation would not have been immediately noticeable to that person; yet having spoken to most of these people on a weekly, if not daily basis, Remus was very affected by it all. It seemed like one of those masquerade balls out of legend of centuries ago, to which revellers had travelled to be generally gay and flamboyant in complete and total isolation from their true selves. Everyone acted his or her part. Remus suspected the wine, scotch, and sherry to be abettors in these happenings, as their amounts were distinctly lessened from their original volumes.  
  
Having eaten an appalling amount of food and imbibed far too much Firewhisky to be good for one's self, Remus was relaxing on the living room floor in front of the fire, which happened to make the room rather stuffy. The party had quietened down quite a bit after the departure of Mundungus and Dedalus, and now only a more intimate group of friends were left: the Weasleys, who were also preparing to leave owing to their twins, Fred and George, turning their youngest son's teddy bear into something unsavoury; Peter, who was sitting quietly in the corner, looking rather nervously at Sirius, who was currently flying Harry around the room, whizzing purple and gold stars after him; James and Lily, who were laughing and watching Sirius like a hawk, respectively; and Minerva, who, curled up in the crook of Remus' leg, was reading a book and occasionally sipping her red wine.  
  
It was the last memory he had of seeing them, all of them, together.  
  
Remus, feeling drowsy and not just a bit nauseous, decided that enough was enough, proclaiming, 'Well, I'd best be off.'  
  
Lily, her eyes never leaving Harry, said, 'Oh, no, surely you can stay a bit longer, Remus.'  
  
''Fraid not. Feeling a bit sleepy actually. Good night, all.'  
  
'Hang on a minute and I'll come with you,' murmured Minerva, closing her book and standing up.  
  
They had been dating, more and more seriously, for a little over a year now. Even in the middle of the storm of fear, accusations, and safeguarding, those had been the happiest months of his life. It had been the classic story of an easy friendship turning into something more; they had been in congruent circles all throughout Hogwarts, and Lily, perhaps their most direct link, had slowly been pushing them together. He was initially as fascinated by her exciting life as a Chaser for Scotland as she was by his Auror training, each pursuing a different path of life through the other.  
  
'Fine. I'll go and get your things, alright?'  
  
'No, no, I'll go fetch them; you stay there.'  
  
'Mmmm. Alright.'  
  
As he sat there, a wave of nausea came over him. Shutting his eyes, he breathed in and out slowly.  
  
So it was not too unexpected that as he stood to meet Minerva and Apparate home, he slowly crumpled onto the carpet in a dead faint.  
  
She reached the cool back of her palm out to touch his forehead. A furrow appeared between her brows. She leaned over him, her eyes preoccupied. Gently, she eased him on his side and proceeded to rub circles in his back, at first lightly tracing his skin with her fingertips, then with increasing pressure until his muscles were so loose that he felt he could hardly move.  
  
She stopped, and Remus could tell by the stillness of the bed that she hadn't moved.  
  
'Relaxed?' Her tone was quietly qualitative as per usual, but he detected a note of anxiousness that bothered him slightly.  
  
'Mmmmmm,' he gave in reply, turning over to face her.  
  
'Feeling better?' she posed.  
  
'Hmmmm. Apparently werewolves can't hold their own.'  
  
'I don't think,' she replied, 'that it was just the alcohol.' She paused and gave him a stare.  
  
'What do you mean?' he replied, staring right back at her.  
  
'Well, Remus, when I can lift you easily without magic, something's wrong.'  
  
Remus looked down for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 'Minerva, I'm a student. Students aren't exactly famous for making loads of money, and-'  
  
'Look, I know that. But you're painfully thin. When was the last time you had a proper meal?'  
  
'Oh, about an hour ago.'  
  
'Remus, I'm serious.' She paused. 'If you need-'  
  
'Minerva,' he cut her off. 'Listen to me. I'm quite serious too. I don't think this is working out. My training, that is. The administrators are making more and more restrictive rules in the school. They're trying to get rid of, oh, let's say, complications. I knew something like this would happen eventually; the Ministry's just been becoming more and more biased, and--' He stumbled to a halt.  
  
'So you're leaving,' she said flatly.  
  
'Yes.'  
  
He stared out into nothingness. 'I'd rather turn to something else, even if it isn't what I want. Rather than starving myself just to be belittled.'  
  
'My Judas. You try to stand all by yourself.' Her demeanour was soft, resentment brimming just below empathy, telling him she'd never thought him capable of treachery.  
  
He was silent.  
  
Minerva considered him. She knew that he wanted to be an Auror more than anything. She also knew that he was used to giving up his dreams to face reality.  
  
'I'm sorry I haven't been around.' There was a tense look on her face.  
  
His eyes widened slightly. 'There's nothing you could have done about that, love.' He rubbed her cheek lightly with his thumb.  
  
She looked rather bemused and faraway. 'You know, somehow, I'm glad. It's too competitive for my taste. Well, it's not the competition that I mind so much,' he smiled wryly at this confession, 'but just the petty meanness that goes along with it. But if I'd have been here, with you instead of at Hogwarts, you would--'  
  
'Oh, stop it, Minerva. Do you honestly think you could have convinced me to leave if I hadn't wanted to? Besides, I hear you're a big success there....' He grinned at her suggestively, sitting up suddenly.  
  
She scoffed at him. 'Silly boys. That Charlie Weasley had better stop daydreaming in class or he'll fail.' She paused. 'I wouldn't have wanted you to leave unless you really felt it best. I don't want you to leave unless you think it best. I just could have made sure you were fed properly.'  
  
'Yes, mother.' She shot him a glaring glance that would have made him cower secretly if he hadn't known it to be in jest. He simply returned her a slight smile.  
  
There was a short companionable silence, until he took her hand in his, holding it up to his cheek, his eyes not quite focusing on the fireplace before him. 'How is it that your hands are always so cold?' he added, glancing up at her, smiling slyly.  
  
She laughed slightly, and considered. 'Just poor circulation, I suppose.'  
  
He took the other and covered both with his own.  
  
She laughed again, and teased, 'How is it that yours are always so warm?'  
  
He looked at her in mock-seriousness. Her eyebrow was cocked just higher than the other. His mood shifted, and he slowly closed the space between their lips, only shutting his eyes at the last minute. They kissed chastely, again and again just touching lips with increasing urgency. As her mouth eased open, he removed one of his hands to circle the back of her neck.  
  
She held onto him, breaking off and running her fingers along his jaw line. Kissing him lightly on the forehead, she whispered, 'Sleep.'  
  
'I can't.'  
  
'Don't be ridiculous, of course you can.'  
  
'Fine, what if I'd rather not?'  
  
She looked at him bemusedly and repeated, 'You need to sleep, Remus.' She paused.  
  
'Don't worry. I think you've made the right decision. You can't let them just push you around, whatever the consequences.' She put his hand against her lips and kissed it softly. With what could have been a sigh, she continued, 'I could never do what you're doing.' She smiled, and kissed him softly, breaking off after a moment. 'Sleep.' She stood up as if to leave the room, but Remus, still holding one of her hands, did not release her. After a minute of searching his eyes, she sat down again.  
  
She added tenderly, 'I will love you until the end of my days.'  
  
He smiled warmly, kissed her fully, and undid her shirt.  
  
Oh God, she was delicious.  
  
The way she smiled, her lips slightly parted in anticipation, her teeth glittering in the soft firelight, the way she moaned slightly as he kissed her neck, her collarbone, her jaw, the way she made every nerve in his body sizzle, white hot, the way she tasted, the way her tongue felt against his, the way her breasts slid across his chest, the way her hair felt, smooth and cold and silky-light against his skin, the way she smelled, feminine and clean and alluring, the way she shivered despite the heat, the way her fingers traced his spine, the curves of the muscles of his back, his jaw-line, the way they wound in his hair, the way she later grabbed his back and clung to him, the way she wrapped her legs around him, the way they shook across his, the way she drew herself closer to him, pulling him into her, the way he fell into complete oblivion....  
  
But most of all, when they were finished, the way she lay there, her breathing not quite normal, looking in his eyes.  
  
And as he was looking back at her, in those expressive eyes that could contain steely fury, light mischief, calm content, bright desire, and a myriad of other emotions, he found a new one.  
  
He knew the same was reflected in his own.  
  
In her fairly extensive rooms, Minerva McGonagall had one that she never entered, a room devoted solely to storage.  
  
She was entering it now.  
  
It felt odd even to touch the doorknob, to twist it, push the creaky door open. There was a slight crisp smell in the air, like the smell of the Restricted Section: it hinted of little use, and of much care.  
  
She noted the layer of dust covering everything in the room, eyeing it unfavourably.  
  
She saw the piles of books, photo albums, and old records. She saw, with a slight sense of regret, her old spinet. Slowly, she walked towards it, feeling rather transported. Taking a lacy handkerchief out of a pocket, she attempted to wipe the dust off the main frame of the piano, the keyboard cover, the bench. After a minute's work, she stepped back to observe her work. It took a lot of restraint not to open the cover, to test the ivory keys. She would be out of practise anyway, and the spinet would be out of tune, and not worth hearing. Not worth replacing the few memories she still kept.  
  
She instead opened the bench top, looking in wonder at all of her old, yellowed sheet music.  
  
Grieg... Rachmaninov and Bach... names she had almost forgotten.  
  
She vowed to ask Filius Flitwick for his book on music charms.  
  
Her throat feeling rather tight, she closed the bench top quickly, sending a cloud of dust all over her. She backed away quickly, coughing and spluttering. It was then that her gaze fell, hesitantly, on the albums.  
  
Breathing through her nose despite the dust she carefully bent and lifted the top one.  
  
Sitting down on the piano bench, she carefully opened its cover.  
  
The first pictures were merely landscapes, scenes of Hogwarts, mostly. Some were of the countryside around Aberdeen, near her aunt and uncle's old farm. A very old picture of her mother, which she skipped purposefully. But she only found another, and another. She regarded her, smiling slightly in her wedding picture. It was remarkable how she resembled her mother. She looked at her father instead, throwing his arm round her mother's shoulders. He had been quiet, reserved, and very intelligent. He had taught at Hogwarts also, had been the Potions master. Her worst subject. They had had a strange relationship, loving but very strange, especially as her mother had died when she was very small.  
  
The next pictures were the ones she was looking for: mostly pictures of a toothy girl with shockingly red hair, though there were a few of other schoolmates. There were pictures of her, riding her first broomstick, and later ones, Lily smiling enthusiastically in her graduation robes, Lily and James dancing a rather exuberant tango, with Remus and Sirius looking on amusedly, all of them sitting around the lake. There were pictures of her and the other Scotland Quidditch players. There was a picture of what appeared to be a person falling rapidly from the sky, a blur of blue and white. There were various notes stuck into this section as well. Minerva sped past these. A picture of the Order. There was a lone picture of Peter, looking very nervously at the floor. Minerva skipped this one too.  
  
And stopped. More pictures of her. And him. Remus.  
  
He was sitting next to her in the stands of the practise field outside Glasgow. He was standing in front of the Auror training section at the ministry. In the Leaky Cauldron in London. There he was, proudly flashing the watch she had given him for his birthday. Grinning like a maniac. Standing right next to her. She had her hair down. It was very odd to see herself, ten years younger, and in dressy muggle clothes. He kept trying to put his arm around her shoulder.  
  
That look in his eye....  
  
She shut the book quickly. She had not needed to see that.  
  
She knew that he had come back. He had been in touch with Dumbledore, and Hagrid, and even Snape.  
  
At any rate, it wasn't as if she had tried to contact him either.  
  
For the first time in eleven years, she allowed herself to remember him. All of him, not just the precise hazel colour of his eyes in the filtered sunlight of the Potter's porch or the soft-smoothness of the skin of his abdomen against hers. All of him. The way he was forever late, the way he smiled wryly when he thought something ironic was amusing, the way he would always poke her lightly in the very middle of her back just to hear her giggle. The way he kissed. And the way he looked at her.  
  
The way he had looked at her, half lost and half tired and completely sorry, when he had said goodbye.  
  
_It was a beautiful night. The stars did not shine, and it was a beautiful night.  
  
The wind howled through the trees, and it was a beautiful night.  
  
The snow did not shine under the bright face of the moon; the clouds did not frame her lovely face; her noctiluminescence was not to be noted.  
  
It was a beautiful night.  
  
It had been a beautiful night, such as this, before.  
  
Yet it wasn't the same.  
  
Never quite the same.  
  
It had been November, and he had left.  
  
She knew that they were going in circles. They had been, for days. As soon as they had reached his flat after the triple service, he broke down.  
  
It alone was enough to tear her apart.  
  
But partnered with every other trouble they had faced, all it did was quiet her. She had been tearful before, but all her tears fled as his broke out.  
  
She was filled with nothingness, was emptied of everything; was filled with everything, was emptied of nothingness.  
  
He did not sob. He was soundless, as was she, and together, they could hear the roaring of cars, the footsteps of others, the creaking of floorboards, the ticking of his wall clock.  
  
He was sucked into nothingness, was spit out of everything; was sucked into everything, was spit out of nothingness.  
  
Their inaction was over-action. Their actions meant nothing. They understood each other.  
  
'Remus,' she tried to say.  
  
Neither looked at the other.  
  
'I can't stay.' Finally, it hung in the room, repeating endlessly in her ears and head.  
  
'I know.'  
  
She wondered if they were talking at all, or if her mind was malfunctioning and filling in text. She felt as if her eyes and ears had failed her.  
  
'I'll come with you.'  
  
'No.'  
  
She knew it to be the only answer she'd get. She knew he wanted her to forget him. She knew that she would often wish she could forget him.  
  
She rose to her legs as he murmured, 'I love you.'  
  
She turned to look at him, seeing the deadness of his features.  
  
'I know.'  
  
An eternity passed.  
  
He rose to his feet, his cheeks still wet.  
  
'Goodbye. Minerva.'  
  
Somehow she was at his side. Closing her eyes against her failing vision, she brought her cheek to his, his mouth to hers.  
  
'Goodbye,' she whispered, and left through the door.  
  
As she looked out her window at the landscape of Hogwarts, the clouds shifted, and the moon began to become visible. She closed her eyes, took off her glasses, and left the window for her bed.  
  
It was November, and she went back to sleep.  
  
It had been a beautiful night.  
  
She had been angry.  
  
She hadn't known if it had been with him, or if she as angry at their fate, or if she was angry at herself.  
  
Angry at him for not realising that he could stay, for not taking her with him, angry at circumstance for forcing them into this, angry at herself for not being strong enough to deal with it, for not bracing herself, for not bracing him.  
  
Angry for not realising that he couldn't stay sooner, for not following him, for not allowing him to brace her for what he knew he must do.  
  
It was irrational, and that in itself was enough to maker her angry.  
  
Perhaps she was just angry that they were different. She wanted to help him, and he wouldn't let her. But it didn't matter, for the time being, because he was gone.  
  
He would be back. If he lived, he would come back.  
  
Only time would tell when.  
  
She would forget her anger. It was irrational. She hated irrationality.  
  
She loved him._


	4. E lucevan le stelle

Hello, all! Just a quick note from me: I've updated the past chapters, particularly Un bel di, so you might want to reread it, just for reference. It won't have a significant impact on this chapter, however, so if you'd rather not, don't feel obligated.

Thanks to Juno for betaing.

_E lucevan le stelle_  
  
E lucevan le stelle,  
ed olezzava la terra,  
stridea l'uscio dell'orto,  
e un passo sfiorava la rena...  
Entrava ella, fragrante,  
Mi cadea fra le braccia...  
Oh dolci baci, o languide carezze,  
Mentr'io fremente  
La belle forme discioglea dai veli!  
Svani per sempre il sogno mio d'amore..   
L'ora e' fuggita...  
E muoio disperato!  
E non ho amato mai tanto la vita!  
  
For the sake of his sanity, he had known that he had to get out.  
  
Seeing them, all of them _that were left_, was too much for his shattered consciousness to take in every day.  
  
Not seeing them made his every night full, and not of sleep _but of memories and gruesome fillers--scenes that flicked by his subconscious and past the proscenium of his mind into the forefront of his reckonings; scenes of Sirius, twisted and wrong that turned his stomach to molten lead, scenes of Lily, screaming and running, scenes of Peter, doing what he himself should have done, a peaceful cemetery, with two matching white crosses standing erect and yet smaller than they suggested, and farther off, a simple plaque bearing a name too familiar to read... Dumbledore crying, openly. And the shocking absence of Harry, a hole that made the scene that much harder to bear._  
  
Yes, he had to live, had to subsist on something. He travelled, at first not caring where he went, just so long as it wasn't _where they were_ back where he had been. Surviving had presented its challenges; subsisting on a day to day basis could be quite hard when you didn't want to own a name or a history. Eventually he was disgusted with his actions, and settled more permanently, sometimes for months.  
  
Everyone always wondered about that poor man that lived all alone down in the outskirts of their towns and villages. There were women, more concerned than the others, who made themselves accessible.  
  
He couldn't see any of them without thinking of her. He never let her leave his mind. For years of his life, he trembled in her shadow, cast from thousands of miles or, once, just a few, on the place of his sanctuary. In some ways, if he let her go, he would have, in essence, let go of life. For him, Minerva McGonagall had become one of his chief reminders of life: the good and cherished, the loved and lost, the forsaken and forgotten. She became his everything. He couldn't bear to think of seeing her again, for if he did, he seriously thought that he might die. Romantic fool that he was. Fool that he was. Cowardly, useless, fecking fool. Running from life.  
  
Somehow, after losing so much, and leaving all else, he didn't think he could manage to ever find everything again.  
  
So he waited. For her to meet him, bump into him, just a touch, and then he would be dead. He even played a game with himself: how daring could he be? -- to find all his strength and live in Scotland in the summer.  
  
He thought had seen her, once. It was certainly a black-haired woman, living in Aberdeen, shopping at the market and the book store. He didn't dare to even make sure.  
  
He had flinched.  
  
He went to the states then, living in the biggest cities he could find. Losing himself again. Losing her. He found a prostitute one night. Expensive, too, for anyone, not just him.  
  
She had been a gorgeous blonde, blue-eyed confection that seemed not to resemble her in the slightest. They had shared a few kisses and a casual discarding of clothing when she asked to go and change a bit with a sly smirk. She came back with large glasses and tousled hair in his shirt. He smirked and moved towards her when he noticed her eyes again. Greenish-brown. Calm. He froze. Goddamn contacts.  
  
He left the states just as quickly and travelled Europe, searching for a reason to subsist that wasn't everything. Himself, possibly.  
  
But, in the end, he found her, and that was enough.  
  
She hadn't been able to sleep.  
  
Nights she would lay awake, long nights, when she could do no more than watch the moon cross the sky through the window she placed in her tower room. Every night, it followed the moon, and never was a trace of mist or cloud to appear in it.  
  
Sometimes, she was lucky, and she could find a troubled sleep by just past the middle of the night.  
  
Many times over, she never slept a wink.  
  
They all saw that she was stressed. But she had ever been a severe young woman, and none could know her trouble but one.  
  
Her devotion to him was as great as it was to any man. He knew this, and he respected her all the more for it. He tutored her and guided her, no matter her troubles, always using a gentle hand.  
  
He was far too soft on her. But he was the only one, really. He was all she had left.  
  
She cherished her students, and her peers, and she found satisfaction in her work. Long years she spent searching for the meaning her life had once held. The feeling of uselessness subsided. But she was always alone.  
  
Because he had left her that way.  
  
They all had.  
  
A seventeen year old girl with long dark hair crept into the parlour room of what once was her father's flat.  
  
She sidled up to a rather dusty black spinet piano and carefully opened the bench cover. Inside, her deft fingers quickly located the Rachmaninov book; she opened it to a page that, if the spine was any indicator, had been rather popular in its past usage.  
  
Closing the lid and sitting down, the girl spread the pages open in a rather nervous habit. She began playing timidly, almost timorously, the melody more like a whisper than a piano, the harmony soft and moody. She looked at the music distantly as her fingers nimbled and grew loose, closing her eyes as the piece came back into her memory.  
  
Grimacing slightly, she began to sway and forgot her fingers and piano as the music filled her ears and mind.  
  
She remembered the exact silvery shade of her father's hair: a tinge of black still not giving up to the dark steely colour that was slowly taking over his head, cut modestly and parted on the left. She remembered the look of his hands, veins soft and throbbing, muscles still strong and exacting. His face, the wrinkles around his eyes that loosened each year, his eyes dark, almost black, his cheekbones high, his mouth, thin yet full. His quiet demeanour, his obsession with his craft, and the small smile he would wear around his daughter.  
  
They were too quiet.  
  
They always had been.  
  
The two loved books almost as much as they loved each other. Found studies as intoxicating as hard liquor.  
  
But they were different, and Minerva couldn't see what her father saw. He found her like her mother, she never did. He loved her as he had loved her mother, quietly accepting and admiring her strength and will and her growing ken. She didn't quite understand him.  
  
Then he went and died.  
  
And she was never the same.  
  
Of course, she had known that he would be targeted. As most of the staff would be: members of the pre-Order before this brainchild of Dumbledore would even present itself as necessary.  
  
Term had ended; she had graduated. He had cried. She never knew, of course, he had become quite adept at hiding his emotions.  
  
She had gone with Lily. The only Gryffindor that had ever really bothered to get to know her. She was forever the quiet, brainy one, or just one of the Quidditch boys. Rather an odd mixture, to Lily's eyes.  
  
She had had a lovely time and was in a good mood. She Disapparated to her father's flat, waiting to tell him about the dinner, as was per usual for them, sitting around the den fire.  
  
When she arrived outside the door, she found that-- there was no door. Her eyes widening with shock, she walked into the living area, seeing that much was destroyed: the cabinet that held her music, her father's bookcase and chair....  
  
'Dad?' she half-cried out. 'Where are you?'  
  
There was no reply. She ran quickly into his study to find the desk half blasted away. Her father was sitting in front of it on the floor, his back to her, swaying like a child with a toy. She rushed to him to see he was holding a dagger, his wand dropped and forgotten.  
  
'Father! What's wrong?' Her lip was raised in total shock, her breathing quickened, her wand in her hand.  
  
The man before her looked curiously at her, trying to understand the noise. He remained silent.  
  
She knelt before him, looking in his dead eyes, before whispering again, 'Father?'  
  
He looked back down at the dagger, his eyebrows coming together.  
  
'Father, talk to me! Please....' She tried to make him look at her. He just sat there, unable to do anything.  
  
'Oh, _God_,' she murmured, remembering something from the _Daily Prophet_. Attacks... by....  
  
'Dementors,' she half-whispered. 'Father....'  
  
Silence.  
  
She cried out and sobbed uncontrollably, her stomach quivering, her teeth bared.  
  
He must have gotten the dagger out before... and he must have intended to.... She touched his shoulder, cautiously.  
  
He took her hand and examined it as though he had never seen one before. She stopped breathing.  
  
He gave her the dagger, smiling innocently.  
  
Horrified, she dropped it, and as it clanged on the ground, he picked it up again with a small smile, holding it out to her.  
  
'Father.... No,' she sobbed and fell into his arms. His position didn't change. Suddenly, she stopped crying. She moved slowly until she was sitting across from him, watching his contented face.  
  
She took the dagger from his hand, shut her eyes, and thrust it into his heart.  
  
He was buried honourably on a sunny day that June, in a small churchyard just outside Aberdeen.  
  
She had been living in her Animagus form for the past days. She transformed for the funeral, and swore to herself that she would never use it to hide again. Something hardened within her.  
  
Albus had been watching her carefully.  
  
He cared for his godchild, too much if truth were to be known. If Albus Dumbledore had one fault, it was his being human.  
  
He watched her, at the head of the funeral party, saw her dropping the dirt onto his casket. He had been resisting the urge to touch her mind. It wasn't his place. But she was only a seventeen-year-old girl. He touched her just briefly, and saw _her hand covered in his life's blood, her face covered in tears, his smile of incomprehension, the deadness of his intelligent eyes, and the fear of the cold deadness, the dreamlike sketch of what must have been his soul_ and then he knew. She turned and looked at him just then, and whether she had noticed his presence or merely glanced up by chance, the look in her eyes was as lost as he had just felt. He smiled wearily at her, the corner of his mouth just turned and felt relieved that she wasn't trying to mask herself.  
  
After the ceremony had ended and most of the party had dispersed, he walked up to her. She looked at him inquiringly, almost as if she had expected him to do this and yet had no idea what to expect. As if she had been waiting for his words, brushing aside all others. Perhaps she had been.  
  
'Hello, Minerva.'  
  
'Headmaster,' she gave in reply, looking at him in that same lost manner.  
  
'Just Albus will do now, or Dumbledore if you prefer.' She looked at him with the trace of a smile on her face, but did not speak.  
  
'Do you know, the last time I talked to Euan, he was bragging on you?' She looked slightly shocked at his abruptness. 'He always was very proud of you -- and with good reason.' He smiled at her fondly.  
She merely looked down at the ground.  
  
'Minerva. Your father was a wonderful man, and I only wish that I had done something to help insure his safety. I feel that a large part of the reason for his death was his devotion to myself and the school, and I did feel that a threat could be expected, but certainly not of this severity.' His bright blue eyes were sober and saddened. 'You have my assurance that I'll be implementing measures to insure the safety of all those who are devoted to fighting against Voldemort--' he stopped as she winced frightfully. 'Minerva, I know that you are feeling all kinds of doubt about your actions toward your father,' she looked up at him sharply, 'but I must emphasise that no one can accuse you of acting wrongly; you were most courageous and thoughtful and-- I would just like to apologise to you for any pain that my failings might have caused you.' At this, she surprised him by embracing him tightly. He patted her on the back gently. He hadn't hugged her like this since she was merely a child. She looked back up at him, her eyes overbright.  
  
'Dumbledore, I'd like to offer you my services in your fight against-- He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. If there is anything that I can do to help you, in any way--'  
  
'I will most certainly let you know, Minerva. We really do need to organise an intelligence group to assist against his attempts. All that I can ask of you now is that you spread the news of his growth to your friends and beg them to arm themselves. Euan's sacrifice has lead me to the belief that Voldemort isn't merely interested in ridding the world of Muggles and their descendants but also any of those who are devoted to stop him from doing so. Be careful, Minerva.'  
  
She smiled at him in gratitude and accompanied him out of the cemetery.


End file.
